


Radically Unorthodox

by feyestwords



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fights, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff, Multi, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-08-22 04:42:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8273230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyestwords/pseuds/feyestwords
Summary: A collection of the various Hannibal writing prompts I've completed. Posted in the order they were written.





	1. Sparring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: for your fluff, how about hannigram friendly sparring? Like practicing their murder skills, keepin fit and whatnot w/ eahc other.

The ringing in Will’s ears muted the world around him. Digging deep into his brain. Eyes taking a few seconds to refocus - everything in the room had splintered into two fuzzy overlapping images. He blinked, opened and closed his mouth, tried to shake clarity back into his skull. His senses came back to him just in time to hear Hannibal’s footsteps land on either side of him, a face near his, lips over his ear.

“Dead.”

Will blinked a few more times. “You hit me.”

Hannibal stood up. Will rolled onto his back, extended his arm.

“I told you I wouldn’t pull my punches.”

“I know,” a slight grunt as Hannibal hoisted him to his feet. Will pressed a flat palm against the side of his head where Hannibal’s fist had connected with his skull. “But that was really hard.”

“I’ll go easier?”

“No, no, don’t go easy, that won’t help.” Will took a step back, one foot ahead of the other, turned to the side. Two fists raised slightly.

Hannibal watched, one eyebrow raised imperceptibly higher than the other. “Would you like a moment to recover?”

“No.” Will cracked his neck. “Let’s go.”

In 15 seconds, his chest collided hard with the floor, weight of Hannibal atop him, arm bent awkward behind his back.

“Dead.”

Pulled to his feet once more. Heart pounding heavy in his chest, quick shallow breaths.

“You keep your head and your shoulders too stiff.”

Will swung his arm, nodding as Hannibal spoke. His elbow twinged where Hannibal had bent it.

“Keep your head too still and it becomes an easy target. Focus too much on defending your head and you’ll forget to protect the rest of you.”

“Mhmm.” Will, twinge no longer just in his elbow, Hannibal’s words patronizing in his ears. Fists up. Then, again, on the ground. Hannibal straddling him, hands curled around his throat.

“Dead.”

Pinned against the wall, Hannibal’s palms over his ears, twisting his head. _“Dead.”_ Irritation simmering hot in Will’s chest. A knife, tip pressed sharp to Will’s navel. _“Dead.”_ Irritation bubbling over into anger. Head against the corner of the kitchen counter, Hannibal’s hand pressing down. A small trickle of blood.

Rage forcing its way through pulsing veins. “What the fuck, Hannibal?”

“You won’t learn if I go easy, Will, you said so yourself.”

Red swarmed his vision. Buzzing. Will grabbed the knife from the counter.

Hannibal’s eyes gleamed at the sight.

Will saw the gleam. Lunged towards it.

Hannibal deflected Will’s first, predictable move with graceful fluidity, using his forearm to shift the direction of the knife, over his shoulder. Will, bent forward slightly, faltering at the misdirection. Hannibal’s elbow jabbed at his spine, easy, mechanical. But fury moved for Will, making him agile, muscles swelling in his chest and arms, and he managed to wrap an arm around Hannibal’s abdomen. Twisting, going momentarily limp, using the weight of his body to bring Hannibal to the ground. Mindful of the knife. Of how hard he pressed his knee into Hannibal’s chest.

Blade parallel to Hannibal’s jaw. Jagged breathing out of sync. Hannibal watched Will with keen eyes. Will’s laid on the blade, on the small indentation the tip made in Hannibal’s skin, tight against bone. He pressed into it, mesmerized by the dark red bead that formed, spilled over.

Will dropped the knife, leaned down, pressed his lips to the trickle of blood and sucked Hannibal’s skin clean. Face hovering above Hannibal’s.

“Dead.”


	2. Cold Feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I'll send you a fluffy prompt but first! *warm hugs for you* also! I'm sad too! I voted like crazy but well. Anyways! Fluffy prompt? Will likes to warm his cold feet in the mornings whilst having breakfast... by placing them on Hanni, anywhere he can get them - Maybe Hanni finds this annoying at first but then... endearing? *more warm hugs for you*

The first time, it’s in bed, and Hannibal nearly spills his coffee all over their sheets as he jolts with the shock.

“Will?”

He pretends he doesn’t know what’s so wrong with what he’s just done. Tone dripping with faux ignorance. “What?”

“Your feet are absolutely freezing.”

Will blinks, slow. “I know, that’s why I put them there.” He glances back down at his food, takes a large bite, chews carefully.

“My legs are not your personal feet-warmers, Will.”

Chews, swallows, shifts in the bed and presses his feet firm against Hannibal’s calves. “Yes, they are.”

Hannibal’s attempts at a protest - scooting a few inches away from Will - are thwarted, as Will persists in pressing the cold soles of his feet to the side of Hannibal’s leg.

The second time, they eat in comfortable silence in their sun soaked kitchen. Will reads the newspaper and doesn’t look up as he lifts his legs and places them in Hannibal’s lap, feet pressed to his abdomen - exposed, warm and wet from the shower.

“Will-”

“Oh come on,” Flicking the page lazily over. “You’re so warm.”

Hannibal closes his eyes, the chill from the soles of Will’s feet seeping slowly through skin.

The third and forth time, Hannibal doesn’t bother to protest, but the fifth time, when Will - possibly drunk off overly-strong mimosas - places the edge of his foot on Hannibal’s face, laughing, muffled into the palm of his hand.

“Alright, no.” He swats Will away. “Too far.”

“What, your face is off limits?”

Hannibal nods. “Legs, arms, feet, chest, sure. But my face - absolutely not.”

Will, smile crinkling the corner of his eyes, tips back his glass & finishes the last of his third drink. A familiar shine behind his iris as he speaks. “What about your shoulders?”

Hannibal takes a slow sip of his coffee. Places it, gentle, on the table, before bending forward. Will slides down, tipping backwards in his chair as Hannibal grips his ankles. Lifts them. Places them on his shoulders. Shifting closer.

Pressing a rough, clear-intentioned kiss where Will’s ankles meet his calves. “I think shoulders are just fine.”


	3. Lips Busy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: So you know how Bryan said that Will and Hannibal's lips were busy on the drive to the clifftop house... I'd love to read that fic! :D

“Really?”

“It’s a skill I never quite mastered.”

Will raised his eyebrows. “I’m surprised.”

Hannibal’s casual smirk, odd and familiar. “Can’t be good at everything.”

Will scoffed. “Please.”

He reached over the center console and under the steering wheel where Hannibal held the fray of wires, two stripped of their rubber coating.  
“You have to… here.” He grabbed the two, held them together. “It’s about the angle, and you have to make sure that-” adjusting his position, twisting them together, and the car roared to life. “There.”

Will, rather satisfied with himself, let them fall from his fingertips, careful. As he leaned back into his own seat, the skin of his hand brushed against Hannibal’s.

Neither could pretend to not have heard the sharp intake of Hannibal’s breath.

Will began to pull his hand away, but in an instant, Hannibal stopped him, fingers locking tight around Will’s wrist. He opened his mouth to explain himself, then closed it. Sighed.

“I apologize, I… It’s been quite some time since I’ve… touched anyone.” Hannibal bit down on his bottom lip. He looked down at his fingers, clasped around Will’s wrist. He ran his thumb slow, back and forth, across smooth skin. Will watched too, Hannibal’s hand, his face. Eyes far too tired, far too soft.

They repulsed him.

“Nobody ever touched you?” Flat. Feigning uninterest. Hannibal loosed his grip reluctantly and Will pulled his hand away.

“There’s quite a difference between being touched and being handled.”

Will stared. Hannibal blinked, once, twice. Put his hands on the steering wheel and forced a too-wide smile. “No matter.”

Will hated how quick he started to crumble. Years of building himself up, and now, here Hannibal sat, blowing him away like dust. He imagined Hannibal curled into himself on the hard bed in his cell, hands squeezing his own elbows in a desperate attempt for some semblance of touch. Frowned.

He rested his hand, palm up, on the center console. Locked eyes with Hannibal.

Hannibal’s soft fingertips. Tickling over rough creases as they dragged light down the length of his hand. Palm against palm and Hannibal’s fingers were slotted between his own, just for a moment, giving a quick squeeze before moving on. Down his wrist now, rubbing along his forearm. A uncomfortably pleasant tingling radiated into Will’s elbow, up his arm, into his shoulder, his chest. Stronger the harder Hannibal’s skin pressed into his own. At the crook of his elbow now, running over fabric, gripping at his bicep, his shoulder. Will turned into the movements, watching, intent, Hannibal’s insatiable eyes.

His other hand met Will’s chest, pads of his fingers at the base of his throat. Cold. Will forced his breath down in his lungs. Everything was wrong. Everything about this, every cell in his body shrieked at him to run, but Hannibal’s hand slid over his other shoulder in a wide circle and Will’s heart fell into his stomach, head buzzing with warmth and light and no.

He closed his eyes when Hannibal leaned in. Ignored the sharp sting behind them when he felt Hannibal’s lips on his, the floodgates in his chest, spilling over, drowning him. Will let his lips part, let Hannibal into his mouth, allowed himself one quiet moan. Hannibal breathed fast, heavy, desperate. Will sat as still as stone, enraged at how perfectly their faces fit together. He caught a breath as Hannibal moved away.

“Hannibal…”

But Hannibal was on him again, quick, hands on either side of his face, fingers pressed hard to his skull, pulling him in, under. Will sighed into him, forced his arms to remain still at his sides, kept them from where they ached to be. Hannibal’s lips were at his ear now, wet, hot, whispering.

Will craned his neck to the side. Moved his face away.

Hannibal, chest heaving, sat back in his seat.

“Hannibal…” Will emptied his lungs, a low hiss. “I… no. We… no.” Eyes scrunched shut. Lips wet.

Hannibal’s shoulders lowered by a fraction of an inch. They spent an eternity in silence, Will’s eyes on the dashboard, Hannibal’s on Will.

Finally he nodded. Once. Curt. Faced forward and put the car in drive.

“Right. Of course not.”


	4. Interruptus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: coitus interruptus (/anything interruptus)

It felt ridiculous. Banal, even, to still have needs. That this twisted being he’d become suffered the same relentless, human desires. Most mornings when Will would awake to find himself hard, he’d ignore it. Roll over, position himself comfortably and force a few more minutes of sleep, counting the seconds until the light throbbing subsided.

He’d remember winter mornings like this with Molly, neither willing to leave the heat of the bed. She’d press her lips to the back of his neck, offer her hands, her mouth, and Will would happily, sleepily, submit.

He awoke that particular morning to a similar warmth behind him, radiating from the body lying next to him. The throbbing was unusually persistent. Will palmed at himself, rolling away from Hannibal in the bed they shared but never spoke of. Hannibal was not Molly, not in the slightest. But the chill in the room accentuated the heat on the other side of the bed and Will bit hard on his lower lip and tried not to think about it.

That was the first time he gave up. Grip tight. Rough. He came in seconds in the shower, water washing the evidence down the tub drain. Will slumped against the cool tile, only just now aware of how built up he had become. After that, it became easier. Images of Molly, her neck, her breasts, the arch of her back, the warmth of her. Will could feel her wrapped around him in the form of his own hands, whenever Hannibal wasn’t there.

It became a ritual, and then it became ritualistic. It took longer. Too long. Frustrating and unsatisfying, ridiculous and banal once again. Memories could only serve him to a point, so Will began concocting fantasies. The vacation they’d dreamt of, his hands atop Molly’s freckled shoulders, the saltwater breeze. Pressed together in his hunting cabin, the slow crackling fire, the inviting warmth of her. Kissing a drop of wine off her bottom lip, cooking in a cramped kitchen, Hannibal’s hand atop Will’s, pressed into his back, guiding the knife.

Will inhaled sharp. Fist faltering. The image persisted and a shudder wracked his limbs, Hannibal’s lips at his neck, hand around his cock, and Will came against the shower wall with a force enough to bring him to his knees.

Chest heaving, mind swirling. He covered his face with his hands, water pooling in his palms, up his nose, and pretended, just for a moment, to drown.

He stopped after that. Hoped Hannibal wouldn’t notice the constant shifts in his behavior. How some days he would avoid him entirely, and others, he’d test the waters. Small touches. Close proximities in small spaces. It had him reeling, the way that treasured images of Molly could no longer get him started, but new and startling images - Hannibal, teeth stained scarlet, lips curled in a vicious snarl - could rip him apart at the seams.

It took a few weeks before he gave in entirely. Accepted, one cold and quiet afternoon, what this might mean. His attempt at a nap was predictably fruitless, and at the sound of the front door opening and closing, footsteps fading into silence, Will rolled over in bed. Closed his eyes and conjured images. _Just to see,_ he told himself, what it would feel like to not resist.

They were there in an instant - Hannibal’s hair falling in front of his reddened face, the hard line of his body, Will’s fingernails dragging sharp down his back. They consumed him, a strangling rush, buzzing in his ears, filling his chest, his mouth, his cock. Legs twisting under sheets, back arched, mouth open. Behind his eyelids, Hannibal kissed along his jaw, his neck, his chest, pressing into him, and they melted together. Cock dripping, aching as though unattended, despite the steady pull of his fist. A low moan escaped his lips.

He didn’t hear the door, somehow, but he did hear the soft gasp of surprise.

Will’s eyes flew open and they met Hannibal, standing in the doorway of the bedroom, head turned to the side, staring, startled, at the wall.

 _Fuck._ Will dropped himself, fumbling, shifted onto his elbow.

“I’m - Will, forgive me, I’ll-”

One hand up, palm facing Will, eyes darting between the wall and the floor. A tint in his cheeks, lips parted. He took an awkward step back, other hand on the doorknob.

Will could feel the throbbing deepen, pulling at the muscles in his legs, low in his abdomen. Had he any time to think, he might have covered himself, rushed Hannibal out the door, but the images swirled in front of him, and words came before thought.

“No, Hannibal, it’s-”

He breathed. Filled his lungs. Hannibal stood frozen in the doorway, wide eyes now fixed, hungry, on Will.

“…stay.”


	5. Digestivo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No prompt, my own ficlet. During Digestivo. Hannibal prepares himself & an unconscious Will for their final conversation.

Hannibal carried him inside. Chiyoh offered to help. He was tired, after all. Frozen and bloodied, hair mopped to the side of his face, shoulders tense and stiff from having been tied back. But he refused, a silent shake of his head and Chiyoh backed away. Walked to the field, rifle in hand. He allowed himself a moment to appreciate her. How, wordlessly, she knew. This was something he must do alone.

Will lay slumped in the backseat, arms limp on the floor. Dead weight. Hannibal felt the same strain he had the night before when he carried him, though he no longer had adrenaline fueling his body. He brought Will, slow, up the steps, across the porch, over the threshold, reveling in every second of pain the twinge in his back sent lighting up his spine.

Hannibal laid Will down delicate onto his bed. Careful not to wake him with too much movement. Fearing he might break.

He’d need some time to think. Prepare. More time than Will’s body was unconsciously willing to give, so he gave two gentle flicks to the syringe, a steady gentle pressure on the plunger, and Will’s sleep took on a far more tranquil rhythm. He drifted deeper. Hannibal, finally, exhaled.

He took a step back, took a moment. Contemplated the door. It stood open behind him, winter chill seeping in through the gap. And then there was the car. Chiyoh. The ease with which he could disappear. It was, he knew, the most practical option. He could make his way to the coast and set sail, heading someplace quiet and obscure, somewhere Will would surely never find him. He’d have to leave quickly in order to get far enough. He’d have to leave now. Hannibal’s eyes, resting on the doorknob, flicked back to the bed. To Will’s pillow flattened curls, the iron streaks of dried blood along his jawline.

He shut the door quietly, though he knew Will was sedated. Nodded to Chiyoh through the window and set to work. 

He took care of himself first, Will’s shower rattling to life, blood peeling off him here and there, ripping off soaking bandages. Ignoring, as best he could, the cold and awful weight inside his chest. The feeling of his lungs filling with water. Water stinging sharp against the brand on his back, the burn raw, white hot pain in every corner of his body.

Deep, drying breaths. Hannibal redressed himself, his wounds. Turned his attention to Will. He undressed him as slowly as time would allow, fingers gliding over skin with each gentle tug of fabric. Placed a cloth over what Will would not want him to see, wrestling down the urge to look. He’d never looked before and he wouldn’t now, Will was worth more than that. Although.

Hannibal sat up straight and felt, all around him, a tension. An uncomfortable air of finality. A penultimate afternoon. He looked back down at Will.

This could be his last chance to look.

Still, he didn’t. He did allow himself one thing, though, face in the crook of Will’s neck. A deep, slow inhale. Committing the scent to memory, locking it in its own room near the center of his mind, before he began with the water.

There were parts of Will still caked in blood from days prior, places Mason’s men hadn’t taken care of. Patches of rough blood stuck to the skin on his chest, stomach, spilt from where Hannibal had opened his head. He couldn’t deny the bizarre amusement he felt cleaning up the fallout from something he had inflicted, though of course, with Will, it wasn’t the first time. His eyes narrowed as his musings led him to the terrible realization that this would, in fact, be the last time. 

Dabbing gently with warm water, watching close as beads of it rolled across Will’s hips, dripping off his waist. Hannibal changed the bandages on Will’s shoulder. Cleaned the wound across his forehead. Slow and somehow far too quick. He took his deliberate time pressing Will dry with a towel, dressed him up again in warm and comfortable clothes. Smoothing the hair across his forehead, resting his fingers against Will’s face.

He knew this would be the last time. Of course he knew. The last time his hands would grip his face. The last time he’d lay him down onto a bed. Hannibal closed his eyes and lived, for only a fraction of a second, in a world where the opposite was true. Where these actions were the first of many times.

…It was still possible. A tiny sliver of possibility rested inside Will, the chance that his journey sparked a deeper understanding of the truth of him, the truth of Hannibal. How those truths fit together.

But then there was the truth of the bullet wound in Will’s shoulder. The ugly scar across his head. The reality of their situation sat thick at the back of Hannibal’s throat, cold in his stomach.

This was the last time.

So, he cleaned up. Discarded old bandages, positioned Will comfortably, carried a chair to his bedside. Hannibal flipped to a new page in his journal, pausing to open the levy, let icy dread flood through his veins and into his pen. Worked, diligent, at solving the problem that teacups and time had laid out before him.


	6. Do You Ache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No prompt, my own ficlet. The moments immediately following Will’s famous "Is Hannibal in love with me?" question & Bedelia’s answer.

The world faded to a thick black nothingness around him, swift and suffocating. Will floated inches above his body, watching the scene from above.

Suddenly, overwhelmingly, everything made sense. The memories he’d catalogued and filed away swam in his vision, taking on a new and brighter hue. Images of Hannibal leaning over him, the ghost of his hands, his thumb stroking Will’s cheek. Love. Yes, of course Hannibal loved him. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but Will found himself rendered stone-still in the dim glow of Bedelia’s living room, coherence entirely absent from his mind.

Strange how everything he knew could simultaneously come together and come undone.

Bedelia’s words rang in his ears, a piercing crescendo.

_“Do you ache for him?”_

Fingers curled tight around the arm of the chair and Will felt himself sinking into the black, the crushing realization. An ache. Of course he ached. The cavern where his lungs should be, emptiness clawing at his ribcage, leaving red and raw scratches that scabbed but never quite healed or scarred. They split at the seams when Will had first gone to see Hannibal, droplets of blood dripping into the twisting pit of his gut. He’d gone to sleep that night clutching his chest.

Will couldn’t deny the ache no more than he could deny Bedelia’s presence in front of him. But… love? Love was what he felt for Molly, the small and familiar tingling in his limbs, warm and welcoming. Love was not the crushing paralysis of the days following Hannibal’s arrest, the muffled sobs after his testimony, the white hot longing that sizzled under his skin in the months after. It was not. It couldn’t be. Will’s heart slammed hard and fast against his chest. He stared somewhere past Bedelia.

“Will?”

Love was not the force he felt pulling him to the glass. The way he inhaled deeper whenever they stood close on either side of it. The desperate and wild hunger.

_No._

Will blinked. Tried to force air into his lungs.

_Love? No. No, no, no._

He felt himself stand, unconsciously, legs nearly giving way beneath him.

“Thank you for your time, Dr. Du Maurier.”

Will hated the way Bedelia’s lips curled into a smile at the way his words shook. He hated the haste with which he left, the few moments he took to catch his breath once inside his car.

The blackness followed him home, filling his lungs, his dreams. He let it seep into the cavern in his chest, fill him up, pour out of him. Unsettling how the sensation of it made him feel whole. A salve to the ache, scratches on the walls of his chest healing into twisted and beautiful scars.


End file.
